


Semantics

by MaxWrite



Category: British Actor RPF, Harry Potter RPF
Genre: M/M, POV First Person, RPF, Twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-09-26
Updated: 2005-09-26
Packaged: 2017-10-24 18:38:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/266615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaxWrite/pseuds/MaxWrite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“I’m in love with him. It sounds ridiculous, even in my head.”</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Semantics

I have to keep reassuring him he didn’t do anything wrong. He doesn’t understand. How can I tell him? How can I tell him the reason I never sit next to him at the dinner table anymore is ‘cause I’m in love with him?

It sounds ridiculous, even in my head.

And no, it’s not that being near him makes my heart ache or something stupid like that … although there is that, yes. But no, my biggest problem with sitting next to him at dinner is that I can’t watch him if I do. When he’s not looking, while mum and dad are engrossed in some boring conversation, I watch him; the way he chews, the way he holds his fork, the way he pushes things around on his plate. I wonder if I do the same things, if mum and dad look at us and marvel at how similar our mannerisms are.

And it doesn’t help matters that he keeps looking up and catching me staring at him, ‘cause then I have to look away quickly. So, of course he thinks I hate him. Of course he thinks I’m angry at him.

But he still comes to me at night. He still sneaks out of his room and into mine and slips into bed with me.

I wish we still shared a room. But last year, we moved into a bigger house so we could have separate rooms.

“You’re getting older, you need your own space,” mum said. Well, she was half right; we are getting older. How could I argue with her? How could I stand there and say, “Yeah, but I’d rather stay with Ollie, I love him, I like sharing a room with him,”? There’s no way that wouldn’t’ve seemed odd. So I pretended to be happy.

Tonight is like any other night. He shows up not long after dad’s snoring fills the entire second floor. He snuggles under the covers with me, and we lie there for a while, casting nervous glances at each other. He’s usually so talkative. But when we do this, he gets all shy. I always have to make the first move. I reach over and put my hand between his legs, check if he’s hard. He almost always is. He moves closer to me, his eyes downcast, and he reaches for me.

On this particular night, I decide throw the covers off us. He hates it when I do that. He feels exposed, like the covers shield him somehow from the perversion of what we do together, like being underneath them makes it okay to touch each other.

He pulls his hand away and sits up.

“James,” he whispers. “It’s cold.”

“It is not. You just don’t want me to see you properly.”

He pulls his knees up to his chest and looks away from me.

“I’m turning the light on,” I announce.

“No!”

“Too late,” I say, as I flip the switch on my lamp. He frowns and curls himself up tighter.

“Why’s it better in the dark?” I ask. “Just because you can’t see it, doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.”

“What’s that s’posed to mean?” He shoots me a nasty look.

“If it makes you feel bad, I don’t wanna do it.”

“It doesn’t make me feel bad.”

“Then why can’t we look at each other when we do it?”

He rolls his eyes.

“We’re just wanking off together, we’re not having sex, James.”

I literally wince. Hadn’t expected those words to cut so deep. Maybe it was more the way he said it; so cold, and with that flash of anger in his normally kind eyes.

“That’s not true,” I say softly.

“What? Are you joking?”

“Bottom line, Ol: if you can’t look at me when we do it, then … just go back to your room.”

A pause, and then, “You are mad at me.”

 _“What?”_

“You keep saying you’re not, but you clearly are.”

“Forget about the seating plan, this has nothing to do with that!”

He frowns in confusion.

“Are you leaving or what?” I finally ask.

“Fine.” He flops onto his back and stares angrily at the ceiling. “Go ahead then.”

“‘Go ahead then’? You smooth talker. How romantic.”

He frowns at me again and sits up on his elbows.

“Romantic? James, what’s with …”

“Forget it, forget it! Just shut up and lie there!”

I lie next to him and slip my hand into his pyjamas. He closes his eyes and reaches for me again. I watch his face. There’s a slight frown line between his brows, but otherwise his features are relaxed. I lean a bit closer. His lips are parted slightly. Cotton candy pink. He licks them. Now they’re moist, and I want to kiss him so badly.

I look at his hair. It’s like shiny strands of dark chocolate. He lets his fringe hang down in his eyes, unlike me; I part mine on the side. I like the way he wears his hair. He looks so cute like that.

I’m doing it before I can stop myself. With my free hand, I sweep his fringe aside, grazing his forehead with my fingertips. He opens his eyes. He just stares at me.

“S-sorry,” I stutter, removing my hand from his hair. He closes his eyes again.

“… Ol?”

“What?”

“D’you wanna, um, do that thing we did last time? You know … rub our dicks together.”

“… Okay.”

I love doing that with him. There’s a word for it, but I don’t remember what it is. I get to be face-to-face with him when we do this. I get to hold him.

I’m up and out of the room in seconds, off to the bathroom to get the hand lotion. When I come back, he’s naked from the waist down, waiting for me. I step out of my pants and underwear as I approach the bed. I apply lotion to myself. He reaches for the bottle, but I won’t let him have it. I know he’s giving me a questioning look, so I don’t bother looking at him. I put the lotion on him myself. I know he wants to ask what the hell I’m doing, but he doesn’t. He spreads his legs for me instead.

He doesn’t look at me while I do this, and it’s a good thing too, ‘cause I can’t take my eyes off him and I’m afraid of what he’ll see in them. That dark brown hair on that pale white skin, accentuating his crotch and framing his face. I know I look almost exactly the same, but really I don’t. Not exactly.

I set the bottle aside, crawl onto the bed and lie on top of him. He spreads his legs further to accommodate me. His eyes are already closed as I lower my body to his. He pushes up against me as our dicks meet.

He is completely silent, as usual. He wouldn’t dare let his pleasure show too much, ‘cause that would be crossing the line into sex, and this isn’t s’posed to be sex. So, he just lies there, as quiet and still as if he were dead, the only movement being that of his hips as he rubs against me.

I can’t help it. Being so close to him, doing what we’re doing together, it feels so good and he’s so cute, and I only want to touch him a bit …

He frowns as I touch his hair again, but he doesn’t open his eyes this time. We’re both breathing harder now and moving faster, grinding more vigorously. The bed creaks.

A tiny, little moan slips out of him. I’m sure he didn’t mean for it to. I’m sure it was an accident. His mouth closes as soon as the sound escapes, and I can see his jaw clench under the skin. His lips part again shortly thereafter. He’s grinding harder and faster and his breaths are coming in short, hard little bursts.

“You can make noises if you want to,” I whisper. He frowns.

I press against him harder. I do it just the way he likes it. He doesn’t realize, but he gives me subtle clues as to what he likes. I pay attention. I watch his face and listen to his breathing. They change when I’m doing something right or wrong. I’ve made quite a few mental notes.

He reacts. He moans again.

“That’s it, Ollie.”

“Shut up, James!” he hisses. It turns me on even more, hearing him speak while we do this. Even if he is telling me to shut up.

“Talk to me, Ollie,” I beg.

“Ungh,” he grunts as he grinds faster, then he whispers harshly, “Shut _up,_ James!”

“I love the sound of your voice,” I whisper directly into his ear.

“Stop it! … Ungh … oh, god …”

He turns his face away. His neck is fully exposed. It’s pale and creamy, like peach ice cream. I want to lick it.

Suddenly his hands are on my lower back, pressing into it as though he’s encouraging my thrusting. He is. He wants it. He wants me. He can’t stop now. He’s writhing beneath me, caressing my back and groaning with pleasure. I can’t keep quiet myself. And I can’t take my eyes off his angel face. If this isn’t sex, if this isn’t making love, then what is?

His lips seem a bit redder and fatter than before. They’re engorged because he’s so aroused. And they look so soft and so inviting, and they’re right there in my face and …

He’s groaning into my mouth, next thing I know. I couldn’t hold back any longer. I had to kiss him, so I did. And he isn’t pulling away, isn’t growling at me, asking what the fuck I think I’m doing. He’s the first to extend his tongue, actually. He thrusts it right into my mouth. The kiss is wet and hot and hungry and desperate, like it’s been building up inside him the same way it’s been building inside me. And when the kiss breaks, there’s a wet _smack_ as our lips part, and he lets out a loud, raspy, passionate cry. And I don’t even care if mum and dad hear us. I don’t care about anything at that point. Except him.

His hands are on my arse, squeezing and clawing. He raises his legs, wraps them around me for a bit, then lets them hang open in the air. I go for his neck, kissing and sucking, and his fingers are suddenly in my hair, and I can hardly believe it, can hardly believe how enthusiastic he’s being. He cups the back of my head, as though to cradle it while I suck his neck.

“I’m coming,” he whimpers. “James … James … I’m … _ungh!”_

I push up onto my elbows so I can watch him. I feel his hot wetness spurting onto us, being absorbed by our t-shirts, and his body arches and shudders, and he’s moaning and cursing, and he’s clinging to me. Every inhibition he’s ever had just falls away in the moment. In that moment, he’s the passionate brother I’ve dreamt of. In that moment, he seems to need me desperately, seems completely helpless against that need. In that moment, as his body succumbs to baser human instincts, he seems, oddly enough, the most angelic I’ve ever seen him.

I feel his body relax. My orgasm stops seconds after his does, and I just lie there on top of him, waiting for him to speak, afraid of what he’ll say.

“Get off me,” he finally mutters. I sigh and roll off him, my wet t-shirt sticking to me.

“You don’t have to be embarrassed,” I say, staring up at the ceiling. He says nothing.

“Ollie,” I continue, turning towards him. The look on his face stops me dead, though. He’s staring at the ceiling too. His eyes look so frightened.

“That was sex, wasn’t it?” he asks softly.

“Um, yeah. I think so. I mean … I didn’t fuck you, but, well …”

He swallows hard.

“But we’re not s’posed to …” He trails off. It seems he’s choked on his words. “We’re not s’posed to do that with each other. That’s … that’s wrong … isn’t it?”

I shrug.

“Seems to me the only difference between what we just did and what we did last night is what you call it.”

“We’ve never kissed before,” he points out.

“I don’t think that makes any difference.”

“So, all this time you’ve …” He seems to choke again. “You’ve been having sex with me?”

“Semantics, Ol.”

“Se-what?”

“Forget it.”

We lie there for a minute or two, not speaking, not looking at each other, listening to each other breathe. Finally, he sits up and removes his shirt, wipes his chest and stomach off with the dry side. He stands. He’s completely naked, and I can’t not stare. He puts his underwear and pants back on and sits down again.

“It’s not sex,” he says firmly. Trying to convince himself, I guess. “We’re just messing around … It’s not sex.”

I watch him. His eyes are darting about a bit. I can see the wheels turning behind them. His brain is trying to understand what’s just happened, trying to figure out what he is now, as everything he thought he was becomes irrelevant.

“Gimmie your shirt,” he says suddenly. “I’ll put it in the hamper on my way back.”

I sit up.

“Ol …”

“I don’t wanna talk about it, James. Just … just gimmie your shirt.”

He won’t look at me. He just sits there, waiting for me to hand him my shirt, staring at his lap, biting his lip. I don’t want to give him my shirt. As soon as I do, he’ll go, and we won’t talk about anything and I might not ever get to be with him again. He might never come to me again. But what can I say to him? He won’t listen.

I take my shirt off and give it to him. He bundles it up with his own. He immediately stands to leave. I want to say something. I want to beg him to stay and talk. I want to take him in my arms and kiss him. But of course, I don’t do any of that. I just sit there stupidly, naked and shivering, wanting to cry, but I don’t do that either.

“Will I see you tomorrow night?” I ask. He’s reached the door and turns back to me briefly to shrug and mutter, “I dunno,” before leaving the room.

I don’t let the tears come. Not even after he’s gone. I force them down and force myself to sleep.

 

Morning. I race into the kitchen, my shirt wrinkled, my tie all weird, and there’s Oliver; crisp, white shirt, tie perfect, impeccable crease down the center of each gray pant leg. He’s standing at the counter, spreading jam on toast, his shiny, dark hair hiding his eyes. All I see is his profile from the nose down.

He knows it’s me. He doesn’t look up. He shifts his weight from his right foot to his left, causing his left hip to stick out. I’m staring at his arse. I’m staring at his little waist. It’s like I’m hypnotized.

I want to talk to him. I begin to speak, but mum races by just then, with her briefcase and her fancy shoes in her hand, her sneakers squeaking on the kitchen tile.

“Sorry, honey,” she says distractedly, after she bumps my shoulder on her way passed. “You boys have ten minutes. Eat fast!” she demands. She pours coffee into a travel mug, lays her briefcase on the table and starts sifting through it. She burns her tongue and curses.

Then dad comes in, grumbling about something, and the dogs are all over everyone, and Oliver won’t leave the kitchen so we can talk. He shoots me a look I can’t decipher, turns and goes to the kitchen table. I give up, grab an apple and go and wait alone in the minivan.

When he joins me, he sits in the front seat. Doesn’t say a word, doesn’t look at me. Mum drives us to school. We have homeroom together, and we sit next to each other, but today, he doesn’t look at me once.

We part ways; me to English, him to Geography. I won’t see him again till lunch. And even then, I don’t think I’ll bother trying to talk to him.

Third period. I excuse myself from History and go to the restroom. I don’t need to go. I just want to be alone for a bit.

I stand at the sink, staring at my reflection, examining all the parts of my face that are exactly like his. I look away. For some reason, I’m suddenly embarrassed to look at myself. Or disgusted. I can’t tell which.

The door creaks open and someone enters. I frown. I want to be alone. And they aren’t going into a stall. They’re approaching the sinks. I sigh.

“James?”

I look over at him slowly. I can’t believe he’s there. I can’t believe he’s talking to me.

“Hey,” I greet him. “What’re you doing here?”

“Needed a break,” he shrugs. “Wanted to be alone, I guess.”

“Me too.”

We look away from each other. Neither of us knows what to say. I stare intensely at the sink’s fixtures.

“James?” he says again. I turn back to him. I’m startled, ‘cause he’s standing right next to me now. He leans forward … and he kisses me.

Our lips stay closed. We breathe through our noses. He takes my hands in his and presses against me. And we stay there like that, just like that, forever.

Our lips part so slowly, it’s as if they’d been fused together. We separate, but don’t open our eyes right away. At least, I don’t. I just stand there, clutching his hands, feeling his breath on my face, feeling his cock pressing into my thigh. Our noses touch and then our foreheads. We nuzzle each other ever so slightly. I don’t know how long we stood there like that.

The door creaks open again. He jumps away from me and turns on the faucet, pretends to wash his hands. I look in the mirror again. I’m moving too slowly. I can’t make myself move any faster though. My legs feel like jelly. My arms are too heavy. I feel like I’m dreaming.

The new person goes into a stall. Oliver and I glance at each other. I look away quickly. I’m terrified of what’s going to happen next. I feel sick to my stomach.

He dries his hands and tosses the paper towel away. He walks back toward me, his eyes downcast. He stops right next to me, looks up at me from underneath his eyelashes. He says, he whispers, only loud enough for me to hear, “It’s not so wrong, I guess … that we have sex.”

He kisses my cheek so softly, I might’ve imagined it. His lips touch me, and my cock twitches, and I inhale deeply and too loudly, and I’m shaking, and I’m so happy.

By the time I come back to my senses, he’s already at the door. I turn to watch him go. He looks back and smiles. His hair is in his eyes.

END


End file.
